Baptism in Blood(19)

(Jesus is Lord, he thought now, half frantically, the words pumping through his brain like polished ball bear­ings, hitting each other and making his skull shake. Jesus is Lord. Jesus is Lord. Jesus is Lord. Take me now Jesus be­cause I’m falling right into the pit of sin.)

Old Mrs. Michaels was standing under the roof over­hang near the side door to Burger King. Burger King was closed, but there wasn’t anywhere else on the strip for her to stand where she would be protected, even a little, from the rain. Bobby pulled into the parking lot and cut his en­gine. He could barely see through the windshield, the rain was that bad. Now that he was this close, though, he could see old Mr. Michaels, huddled behind his wife, blank-eyed and frightened. Mrs. Michaels was one of those big-stomached women who looked like they’d swallowed a basketball. She was wearing a bright orange sweat suit with the words CHRIST IS COMING BE PREPARED printed on the back of the sweatshirt. Mr. Michaels looked like he was wearing prison garb or pajamas. He was so thin, everything he put on his body sagged.

Bobby opened the door of the van and slid out. His thick-soled shit-kicker boots landed in the middle of a pud­dle and spattered water everywhere. He had water in his face, too, where the rain was hitting it. He put his hand up to shield his eyes and ran over to where the old people were standing.

“Praise the Lord,” Mrs. Michaels said, when Bobby reached her. “I thought you’d been drowned in this storm, I really did. I thought we were going to be stranded here forever.”

Bobby looked back at the van. “Maybe I ought to go get the side door open. Then we can run him right in and he won’t have to stand around in the rain.”

“It’s been the Devil’s own problem, keeping him out of the rain today,” Mrs. Michaels said. “Every time I take my eyes off him, he just wanders off. I’ve been driven to distraction.”

“Mmm,” Bobby said.

“I talked to the reverend about it,” Mrs. Michaels said, “but there wasn’t much he could tell me. Alzheimer’s disease, they call it nowadays. We just called it getting se­nile, in my time. That’s what it is. Just getting senile. He won’t ever get any better now.”

Bobby looked dubiously at old Mr. Michaels. His eyes were vacant. His hands were limp. He was staring at a blown-up picture of a Double Whopper.

“Maybe you could go to a healing,” Bobby said. “You know. Like they had down in Charlotte a couple of months ago. Maybe that would do him some good.”

“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Michaels said. “I been to healings when I was younger. Those preachers never did seem to like people who were going senile. No percentage in it, I’d expect.”

“Percentage?”

“Well, you couldn’t make them better, no matter what, now could you?” Mrs. Michaels was matter-of-fact. “Better to get those other things, the cancers and the ul­cers. Nobody knows if they’re healed or not at the end of the night. Things work out better that way.”

“But God can heal anything.” Bobby felt confused. “You just have to find somebody He’s given the gift of healing to. Then Christ will heal you and you’ll be whole.”

“Will you?”

The rain was getting worse by the second. Bobby felt himself getting worse, too, angrier and more agitated. He had always thought of Mrs. Michaels as one of the most solid members of the church. Now it seemed she wasn’t any such thing. She didn’t believe in healing. She didn’t believe in miracles. She was standing here telling him there were some things God just couldn’t do. Or she seemed to be telling him that.

Bobby looked her over one more time and decided he just didn’t like her. She was too bright and hard and cyni­cal. Her jaw was slack and there were lines on both sides of her face, slashed into the skin like wounds, set off by big blue tinkling earrings bought at the jewelry counter of a five-and-dime. Bobby didn’t like Mr. Michaels much, ei­ther, but that was just… reaction. It was hard to like somebody who drooled when you talked to him.

“I’m going to make a run for the van,” Bobby said. “I’ll get the door open and be right back.”

“That’s very good of you,” Mrs. Michaels said. “Mr. Michaels and I would be much obliged.”

Bobby put his head down and ran across the parking lot. Lightning split the sky over his head, making him won­der whether he was grounded or not, whether he would get hurt if he was hit. He landed in puddle after puddle, send­ing waves of wet up the insides of his legs. When he got to the van, he suddenly couldn’t find his keys. He had searched all five of his pockets before he remembered that he had hooked them onto one of his belt loops.